A Summoner's Will
by pocketcucco
Summary: “I’ll prove it to you!” Klarth had said to his father back then, and now he found himself repeating those same words to the proud researchers before him. “I’ll show you that humans can still summon.”


**Author's Note: **I came across this old short story the other night when I was cleaning out my writing files to transfer to my new laptop. The short story hasn't been touched in over a year (the last edits were made to the document in July of 2007, but I have a feeling that I haven't really added anything big writing-wise to it since the beginning of that year). It was actually a set of oneshots telling the story of how Klarth became a summoner, but they were mostly unfinished. In the end I decided to salvage what I could and do some major editing and work so it could be posted—a friend of mine originally asked me to write this over a year ago, and I feel bad that I've neglected it for so long.

Just a note: this takes place _**before **_the events of _Tales of Phantasia_, when Klarth was still presenting his theories and learning to summon. Since most of this is probably inaccurate, it is written in a **mostly AU setting**. I do know, however, that he had a sour relationship with his father as a child.

This short story is dedicated to a close friend of mine, **phantasiagirl**.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Tales of Phantasia_.

_A Summoner's Will_

"And that, my esteemed colleagues, is my theory on the art of summoning," Klarth said, concluding with a brazen tip of his hat. He paused and took a quiet breath, letting his eyes scan the silent crowd of seemingly emotionless scholars seated on the panel before him.

One of the researchers, a middle-aged man with receding brown hair, stood and quietly cleared his throat. "Klarth F. Lester, correct? I must admit, it is an…interesting theory, but I'm afraid it lacks proper ground and logic."

"Lacks logic?" Klarth repeated, his confident smile slowly fading to a scowl. "I can assure you that I've done more than enough research in order to back up my theory," he said, holding up a stack of scribbled notes. "You see, back in ancient times, the people of-"

"We heard you the first time you mentioned it," the scholar interrupted impatiently. "But you see, you haven't researched _enough_. You're still young, Klarth, and I fear you haven't studied the subject long enough. Many men and women in this field have spent decades tapping into summoning resources only to find that it was for naught. Summoning is a lost art, and we're not even sure if it was even a _viable_ art in the first place. No one has been able to summon for over four thousand years...according to the texts, anyway."

"That's because no one's putting enough effort into their work!" Klarth protested, pounding his fist against the wooden table. "In order to form a contract with a Summon Spirit, you need a pact ring. They can only be found in certain locations, and if my memory serves me correctly, the elves are still holding onto one."

"Are you sure something as trivial as a ring could call forth the strongest beings in Aselia?" the man questioned, skeptically raising an eyebrow. A few of the other researchers at the table nodded with agreement as he continued. "Why would a powerful Summon Spirit even deign itself to appear before a mere human, let alone fight for them? I understand them manifesting for the elves, perhaps, but still…the idea seems farfetched."

"But-"

"Summon Spirits are simply a myth. There's no benefit in studying them any further—it's a waste of time and effort on both your part and mine."

"What if I could prove they exist? What if I could summon using a pact ring?"

The man smiled stiffly. "I'd like to see you try, Mr. Lester. Come back when you've formed a pact with this Summon Spirit of yours."

"Summoning isn't worthless! Once we've gained the power to form pacts with Summon Spirits, Midgard will be able to do so much more! Think about it!"

The scholar sighed and cleared his throat again, glaring at Klarth from the corner of his eye. "That's enough. You've been dismissed."

Klarth glowered at him defiantly, but gathered his things; he had, once again, lost his chance to prove his hypothesis. He knew his summoning theory was correct—he had been researching in the field since he was a young teenager, after all. Even now, as an adult, he admired the elves for their ability to use magic and always wanted to be able to wield that ethereal skill himself; summoning seemed to be the only feasible way for a human to attain some type of magical prowess.

"_Summon? Ha!" _His father—another scholar who spent most of his time locked away in Midgard's libraries—often laughed when Klarth told him about his new discoveries, eager to impress his demanding parent. "_It's a worthless pursuit. No one's been able to summon for centuries. I'm one of the most honored scholars in Midgard and I can't summon. What makes you think _you_ can?"_

"I'll prove it to you!" Klarth had said, and now he found himself repeating the words to the proud researchers before him. "I'll show you that humans _can_ still summon. I-" He suddenly found himself being herded to the door by the older men.

"Come back when you have a more solid premise!" he heard one of them yell as the heavy oak doors slammed shut in his face. He could still hear their muffled, mirthful grumbles as he walked solemnly back down the empty halls.

* * *

Klarth stepped into the small, cramped house with a tired sigh, throwing his summoning books and notes on the floor. The front room was clean and organized—Mirald, his housekeeper, must have been through earlier. Klarth himself had always been an effective homeowner; his things were constantly in disarray and food was always being burnt or undercooked. After several nasty bouts of food poisoning and nearly fracturing his arm after tripping over a large pile of notes, Klarth caved in and decided to hire someone to do his housework for him.

Mirald Rune, a young woman from one of the nicer areas in the city, was the first person to show up for an interview several weeks after he posted his initial offer.

"I can clean and organize, or mend clothing and cook three meals a day," she said proudly. Klarth already approved her attitude; she seemed smart, pretty, and above all, obedient. He figured that he would have more time for studying and she would never get in his way.

That was the first time (in his recollection, at least) that he was proven wrong so quickly.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Try to pick up your books once you're finished with them!" Her loud, frustrated yells echoed through the tiny house and drifted onto the street, much to the displeasure of Klarth's neighbors.

Klarth kept telling himself that the only reason he didn't fire her on the spot was because no one else had applied for the job—she accepted his low payment, and he didn't have much money to spend on other housekeepers because of his meager salary. But as much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to develop a soft spot for her; she had her moments when she would calm down and be the kind, calm woman he had met during the interview.

Now, after his depressing conference in the academy, he returned to find his house neat and tidy despite the fact that he had left his papers and books lying around when he departed for his meeting. He dragged himself to the nearest chair and sat down, waiting for the impeding storm. He winced when he heard a set of light footsteps moving down the hall.

"Klarth, I didn't hear you come in," Mirald said, wiping her hands on the front of her flour-dusted apron. Klarth turned slowly to face her, unable to disguise the shocked expression on his face. Was she _smiling_?

"I just got back," he replied, his hands clenched nervously around the armrests of his seat. This was an unusual change—he had anticipated her explosion, the inevitable _thwack _as she hit him with whatever cookware she was holding at the time (he was still waiting for the day she walked in with something sharp and potentially dangerous, like a knife), and finally, another argument as they debated on the usual who-left-what-out and who's-responsible-for-cleaning-it-up.

'_It's a new tactic,' _he thought sourly as she quickly returned to the kitchen and reemerged with a tray of teacups balanced delicately in her hands. '_She's going to drug me with that drink and finally kill me. She'll burn my books and rip up my research papers. That-'_

"Tea?" Mirald interrupted, offering him an empty cup.

"No, thank you."

"Maybe some wine?"

'_At least I can go out with a bang.' _"Sure."

She smiled again and stood, taking the tray back with her. "I'll be right back."

Klarth leaned against the chair, taking a deep breath as he mentally wrote his last will and testament. Mirald came back to the living room a few minutes later, holding a bottle of red wine—it was a new bottle, Klarth noticed, and he secretly wondered how she managed to find his stash of hidden alcohol. Mirald struggled with the wooden cork for a moment before finally removing it and pouring the scarlet liquid into tall, pristine glasses. She handed him a glass and grinned, taking her own and putting it to her lips.

"So, how was the meeting?" she asked pleasantly.

Klarth took an experimental sip of the bittersweet wine before replying. "It was all right."

"Just all right?"

"It was a disaster," he admitted after a brief pause, feeling his pride plummet another few decibels.

Mirald frowned. "What happened?"

Before he could stop and think, Klarth found himself telling her about the entire meeting, glancing at her every few seconds to gauge her reaction. He expected to see her familiar, mirthful smile and the unavoidable choruses of "I told you so", but she said nothing, listening to him with her hands folded placidly in her lap.

"They rejected my work like it was nothing because I'm 'too young'," he concluded angrily, tightening his grip on the wineglass. "I'm lucky my father wasn't there to see that."

To his genuine surprise, Mirald smiled. "You hate him so much and yet you hold him in the highest regard. Or, at least that's how it seems to me."

Klarth lowered his head, hiding his face beneath the brim of his hat. "I...want to impress him sometimes," he said shamefully.

She placed a hand on his, and he loosened his grip on the thin stem of the glass. "I know you do. But you have to remember that his opinion shouldn't matter so much – it's eating you up."

Another guilty sigh. "I know."

Mirald pulled her hand back and took a quick taste of her wine before continuing. "Are you going to continue your research now that you've been dismissed from the panel?"

Klarth thought for a moment as he stared into his own glass, swirling the rich liquid with a lazy flick of his wrist. He saw his reflection in the scarlet drink, and for a moment his image reminded him of his father; all he could see was a stern, angry scowl. He looked away, focusing his gaze on a nearby bookshelf. "I don't know."

"Summoning takes a lot of work, doesn't it? You need to find those silly pact rings, and then you need to figure out where the Summon Spirits are…"

Klarth choked on the wine he had been swallowing and coughed loudly. "How did you…?"

"I was poking through your notes today while I was picking them up," she began, looking down at her hands. "You could get seriously hurt if you do something wrong, you know. So why do you keep pursuing it like this? Why don't you focus your studies on something else like Magitech?"

"Because I _know _I can do it. Just because no one else can summon doesn't mean it isn't possible," he responded. "I want to prove to those pig-headed scholars that humans _can _form pacts with Summon Spirits, just as elves can use magic."

Mirald stood up again, taking his empty glass before setting it on the tray. "All right. I'll trust you for now. Just be careful...all right?"

Klarth smiled, pleased that she understood his reasoning for once without arguing. "I will. Don't worry about me."

She turned away reluctantly. With an uncharacteristic pang of guilt, he knew that, deep down, she still didn't trust his word.

* * *

"He passed away last night, Klarth," Mirald told him quietly, her distant gaze focused on a flickering candle settled amidst the piles of papers and books stacked on the messy desk.

Klarth blinked wearily several times, slowly looking up from the notes in his hands. "He—Who?"

"Your father passed away in his sleep last night. Apparently he suffered from a stroke, and no one was there to help him. He died."

Klarth placed his hands on the table, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. He and his father—a busy researcher who rarely had time for him as a child—had maintained a rocky relationship for as long as either of them could remember. Even after Klarth grew into an adult and took up academic work in Midgard, his father wasted no time in denouncing his claims of summoning and urged him to take up another subject to study.

Klarth felt an icy claw of remorse settle somewhere in his chest, and knew that he was guilty for silently praying for his father's demise over the past twenty-odd years of his life.

"I'm..." His voice cracked, and he had to stop himself again and swallow past the uncomfortable lump in his throat.

"I'm so sorry," Mirald whispered. Klarth dropped the book he had been holding, letting it fall to the wooden floor with a loud smack. He sat in a stunned silence, unable to believe what she was telling him.

His father, a man he had spent so long hating, was dead.

What he had quietly wished for had come true at last, and he didn't feel anything. He always thought that once his father finally kicked the bucket, he would feel a sense of relief, that heavy weight on his shoulders would disappear and he would be free from all his inhibitions and silent worries. Now he felt instead as if an unbearably heavy brick had been tossed in his stomach.

"Klarth? Are you all right? Do you…want me to get you something?" Mirald asked, wringing her hands nervously at her chest.

"I'm...fine."

"I don't think there's going to be a funeral since you're his last living kin. Well, I'm sure the royal family will do something since he was one of their best scholars, but..."

"I'm not invited because of what happened last month," he finished grimly. Klarth picked up his tome again and threw it on the table, knocking over a small bottle of black ink. The dark liquid quickly spread across his parchment notes before dripping onto his outstretched hands. "It's not like I care. I wouldn't have gone anyway."

"Klarth..."

"I need to be alone for a while."

"But-"

"I want to be left alone!" he commanded, his voice rising a strained yell.

Mirald backed out of the study and close the door, shocked by his sudden anger. Klarth waited until he heard her footsteps fade down the hallway and into the kitchen. He bent forward and sat wordlessly for a moment, staring at the ink on his hands. If it had been red, it would have resembled blood.

'_My father's blood is on my hands…?' _

He leaned forward and rested his head in his arms, his chest heaving with a weary, soundless sigh.

* * *

"Toss those in my bag." Klarth pointed toward the stack of worn, leather-bound books perched precariously on the edge of the overcrowded shelf. "And those can go in the boxes."

Mirald looked at him doubtfully. "Do you expect me to carry those?"

"Yes."

"Think again," she replied, picking up several loose notes on the floor. "You can carry them yourself. They're _your_ books, after all."

Klarth scowled and pulled the heavy tomes from the shelf. But as he grabbed one book the others came tumbling down with it, falling in a messy pile on the floor. Mirald laughed when he jumped back gracelessly, giving a cry of surprise.

"Looks like you'll be picking that up, too," she said, putting a hand over her mouth to hide her smirk.

"This is your fault! You're the one who put them up on the shelf like that," he retorted, snatching up the tomes and balancing them in his hands. "If you'd be a little more organized, then they wouldn't have fallen."

"Oh, don't even get me started on _your_ organizational methods," Mirald said, placing the stack of notes in a nearby box. She winced when a piece of paper cut her finger, drawing a small droplet of blood.

Klarth set down his load and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. "Don't be so careless," he muttered, dabbing at the shallow wound. "You're going to stain my notes with this stuff."

Mirald tore her hand out of his, scowling playfully, and began closing the nearly full box at her side. "We still have so much left to pack, don't we?"

Klarth nodded silently and added his books to the things in another carton nearby. Several long, tiring weeks had passed since his father's death, and he decided that it was finally time to leave the kingdom of Midgard. After the incident in the academy, Klarth realized that there was nothing left for him in the city; he had no choice but to leave and restart his life somewhere else. After poking through maps of Aselia he settled on Euclid, an out-of-the-way village in a rural area on the western continent. Mirald was reluctant to leave at first, but Klarth was adamant about his decision and began packing before she could say no.

"I suppose you'll be needing me out there anyway, right?" she said, pretending to be uninterested.

Klarth shrugged in reply, feigning disinterest. "I suppose I will."

She hesitated for a moment, stacking a few more books and small pieces of furniture. "Why did you decide on Euclid?" she asked after a long pause.

"Well, for one, it's far from here," he responded, dragging a heavy box of tomes from one end of the house to the other, "and it's quiet, so I'll be able to get lots of studying and research done."

"Are you sure it's safe to live in such a remote place like that? What if something happens?"

Klarth grinned, shaking his head. "It'll be fine. There are plenty of people living and thriving in that village. Besides, those scholars won't be able to mock me anymore. I think I'm on to something with my theory anyway."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I've heard rumors about a Summon Spirit in the mountains outside of Euclid. I want to find its pact ring and attempt a summoning."

"So _that's _why you wanted to move to Euclid," she said, still smiling despite her exasperated sigh. "Are you sure it'll even work out?"

"Of course it will! I just need to do more research, that's all. And I need to find that ring."

"Are you sure you'll even be able to find it? The scholars still didn't believe you…"

"It'll all work out, I promise. Now that I don't need to show up at the academy I can dedicate all of my time to studying and searching," Klarth replied. "Once we arrive in Euclid, I'll continue my work and summon my first Spirit! And I'll accomplish the task in a few mere weeks!" he promised, grinning arrogantly.

Mirald found herself rolling her eyes again. "A few weeks, huh? We'll see about _that_, Klarth F. Lester."


End file.
